With the
candle-wax being stirred slowly and Paul cutting off pieces of
beeswax and the other waxes with his knife and then stirring the
inner pot of the 'double-boiler' regularly, I was wondering what
Georg could do, now that he had run out of ready-to-melt tin pieces.
I suspected he would keep what lead alloy he had mixed up and hot and
then transfer it to Hans' lead-pot as needed, but after filling that
'full', he pigged the remaining amount of lead alloy and turned off
the heating lamp under his 'full-sized' pot. He then looked at me.

“Hans has enough
lead there for a week's work if he does as he is doing now, and at
least enough for ten leather pouches of that shot Willem is running,”
said Georg. “I molded at least thirty of those things, and
they weigh three times the usual weight for lead-slugs.”

“You weighed
them?” asked Sarah from across the room.

“Yes, three, and
I found out how to get that scale to average their weight, and Hans
had three of the others, so I compared the two and that is the
difference I got,” said Georg. “Now, how close is it to
sundown?”

“Another hour at
the least, Georg,” said Anna. “We have a surprise for Waldhuis,
so I suggest you stay clear of that place.”

“I will, if this
map Sarah gave me is as good as she says it is,” said Georg –
though at the back of this matter, I could hear a long-winded
string of oaths regarding Waldhuis, who – or rather, what – lived
there, and where it and its dwellers needed to go. “Worst case, I
can show it to Tam and ask what he thinks of it.”

“You will most
likely not find a better map,” said Anna. “I know how he feels
about maps, and he's told me his-own-self that most of them are fit
for getting a fire lit in one's stove, unless they're ships' charts,
and I know of only two people who don't do ship's charts that can
draw maps worth the trouble – and she's one, and he – here, she
pointed at me – is at least as good.” Anna paused, then, “she
might have to go there, but that's a most-familiar ground for her,
and she knows it fully as well as her bed.”

“The couch,
Anna,” said Sarah – who was mumbling about a bed of some kind,
and how she wanted a plain bed, not one of those four-posted
horrors, and she wanted a good mattress, not some lumpy thing
that made a sore back worse overnight.

I was usually far
too tired to notice the state of my bed much, save if I'd had
a nightmare.

“You need a
water-bed, but they don't have those overseas,” said the soft
voice, “and she'd like one. Trouble is, the usual beds there tend
to be fairly narrow, save if you speak of hospital beds.”

“Yuck!” I
spat.

“You'll speak
otherwise of their hospital beds once you lay on one of them,”
said the soft voice. “All of the conformity of a water-bed, a lot
better support, a soft and slightly fluffy covering that feels just
like that cloth that 'tickles your skin', and then a soothing warmth
and a deep and pleasant massage.” Pause, then, “you get in one
of those, and you will not wish to get out of it!”

“Do they have
such cloth?” I asked.

“Not currently,
but once they read your mind, they'll have modest amounts on short
notice,” said the soft voice. “They have intercepts of that kind
of clothing, but could never figure out its precise usage and much
else, and you'll give them the answers they need.” Pause, then,
“you'll be able to get it in any color wished, by the way, and
unlike that cloth you recall your underclothing being made of,
this stuff will work better at maintaining comfort and be less
inclined toward damage.”

“What is this?”
asked Esther. “Do you speak of underclothing?”

“Yes,” I said.
“Don't tell me – yours feels like it is crawling with bugs.”

“It was doing
that until I put some laundry soap to it while I was getting my last
bath,” said Esther. “I usually carry a spare pair if I'm away
from home, and now those are soaking in a pot I found along
with part of a bar of that laundry soap and a pinch of that medical
stuff to kill anything that could cause me trouble.”

For some reason, I
thought, “Esther needs some of that strange underclothing
that was spoken of.”

I then wished I
had not done so, for Esther suddenly looked in her clothing,
then said, “something happened to my underclothing, and it feels so
much better that...” Here, she loosed a giggle, then continued,
“no, it isn't like harboring a tickler or two in one's clothing,
but it does feel good.” Esther then laughed, her laugh
high-pitched and giddy.

“Ah, that is
good,” said Hans. “She is laughing. Now did you put a tickler
to her, or what?” Hans was looking at me.

“No, but her
speaking of her underwear feeling as if it was 'buggy' was speaking
well of a bad situation. Sarah, could you go see that underwear she
has soaking?”

Sarah shot up the
stairs, then not thirty seconds later ran down. Her voice was a
shout. “Esther, that stuff is fit for the rag-merchants,
it's so bad, and it's the buggiest underwear I've ever
seen anyone wear. How could you stand it?”

“Not very well,”
said Esther. “This I'm wearing is a lot nicer. It almost
feels like knit tickle-cloth, now that I think about it.” Another
peek, then, “no, it is not tickle-cloth, even if it is a nice white
color. Oh, here is a printed label. It says 'easy-clean stain
resistant finish with wicking properties.” A pause, then, “I am
not a candle, so why do I need a wick?”

“Exercise
clothing,” I said flatly. “Could I have a sample of that stuff
to show Sarah what it looks like?”

A muffled 'thump'
caused a small fiberglass bin to show next to where I had the bullet
sizer and lubricator set up, while Esther was readying the two candle
molds. She was putting a handful of 'dirty' salt in the water, ready
for the ice when the wax was done up. Hans was still casting
bullets, but I could tell, even with Paul changing off with him, the
two of them were about 'done' for such bullets. Hans then surprised
me with the number of bullets he had done so far.

“I have four
hundred and eighty-four of those things as far as I can tell, and I
will get another twenty of them out of this lead-pot, while Paul has
two decent sacks of stiff shot from that mould,” he said. “Now
it is good you have that thing there, as I want to learn how to use
it.”

“So you don't
get nearly as messy putting grease to your bullets?” I asked, as I
looked at the 'MEDNO' followed by a double-six hexadecimal number
embossed into the bin's lid. “I wonder what this is?”

I then popped the
latches, and the contents I saw was well-beyond astonishing,
especially as it was folded up neatly

“What is that
stuff?” asked Sarah, as she came to my side from where she was
finishing up her batches of ink between helping Anna identify certain
medicines. I knew we would be taking some of those tablets in our
medical kits, Spraetzen or no Spraetzen; most of the drugs we would
need would work to a substantial degree if taken by mouth, and
Anna had some tinctures that she knew from experience worked
to a degree. There were two vials filled with that one bitter
medicine that kept the red fever under control if taken preventively
thrice a day, no matter how many small red bugs decided to show up in
order to sample one's body fluids.

“Clothing,” I
said, touching one of the impossibly-small-folded 'shirts'. I took
one out, shook it – and to my astonishment, it 'fluffed out'
markedly. The color of this long shirt was a very pale blue.

“What is this
for?” I asked.

“Why,
'exercise clothing',” said the soft voice. “It's the easiest
stuff imaginable to wash – a pot of hot water and a small bit of
field soap, stir it well for a few minutes, rinse it twice, hang up
to dry for an hour in a reasonably warm room, and it's good to go; it
wears like the very best flour sacking; and it does not go
buggy.” Pause, then,
“it was developed during the waning years of the war, at least to
the degree they have it now overseas, but give them a piece of that
stuff and they'll be turning out 'the straight turnip' in three days
flat – and that in quantity.”

“The straight
t-turnip?” I asked.

“Turnips were a
commonplace weed in the combat zones, and the soldiers found
them very useful as meal extenders when food was shorter or
more monotonous than they wished.” Pause, then, “trouble was,
those things tended to cork most people, so the usual was to
carry all they could of certain foods, some of which are still
regarded as rare delicacies over there.”

“What?” I
asked.

“You'll learn
what some of them are within hours of you getting there,” said the
soft voice, “and between that, some of the other weird things,
'flash' toilets, and swarms of blue-suited functionaries – you all
will be very busy and quite perplexed, which is why I gave the four
going other than you that list so as to teach you-all what you needed
to know, and why the two of you know what those blue-suited silver
collared thugs are actually like when they outnumber you to that
degree.”

“Dumb as bricks,
but when there are lots of them, they're trouble,” I muttered, then
my voice rose to a near-giddy screech – one higher-pitched than
Esther's laugh. “Trouble? That is no word for those
stinkers, and that's if you don't run into one that's a spy or a
spy-in-training.”

“We got three of
the worst type of spy already,” said Sarah. “That means there
are seven of those bad ones left. Now will they raise up more like
they are?”

“Yes, but
remember that type of spy takes a lot of training and perhaps
one individual out of a very large group is able to become one, so
they've never been particularly commonplace, unlike the other kind –
which you most likely will run into a number of times.”

“Clean their
ears right off,” I muttered, “and then rifle their pockets for
anything of value before they go up in smoke.”

“One
difference,” said the soft voice. “Most spies on the home front
do not wear 'self-cremation garments', as those are reserved
for places where their cost is a justifiable matter, like in the area
around Ploetzee. Otherwise – spies will just simply die like any
other functionary, and unless you get a truly unusual individual,
they will not catch fire or explode.” Pause, then, “Ploetzee was
one of the highest-value non-domestic targets that regime has, so the
thugs you saw there were 'the pick of the crop', save for those
hordes of commonplace thugs that were 'cannon-fodder'.”

“Not even normal
cannon-fodder,” I spluttered. “Most blue-suited functionaries are
less capable than the ones there.”

“True, provided
you speak clearly of the word 'most',” said the soft voice. “If
you see 'lines' of those people marching, shoot the first handful in
that line, as they'll be the most experienced individuals, and
usually the 'hardest' of that given group.”

“The rest?”

“Figure five to
one,” said the soft voice. “Each one of those thugs you took on
in Ploetzee is worth five of the ones you're usually going to run
into overseas.”

“Five to one,”
I gasped. I almost said the rest of the line, that being 'five to
one, one to five, no one gets out of here alive.”

“No, go ahead
and say that part,” said the soft voice. “That was a very
popular line among 'heavy scout teams' when they were getting ready
to 'get some', and when they spoke of 'no one gets out of here
alive', they put that into practice when they were cleaning
houses.” Pause, then, “the witches really didn't like
hearing their propaganda turned against them in that fashion,
and those overseas in current positions of leadership won't wish to
hear it either.”

“What is this?”
asked Sarah. “I might have seen it on a tapestry or read it in an
old tale.”

“Five to one,
one to five, no witch found here gets home alive!” I spat. “That
sound better?”

“Yes, as it is
an exact quote of what I read,” said Sarah, “and it was said to
be a commonplace saying among those the witches named monsters.”
Pause, then, “I think there was more than one version, though, as
they sometimes said the last part a bit differently.”

“No one here
gets out alive?” I asked. “As in they'd chase the witches to
ground, squeeze through cracks so small that the witches thought
would block them, and then they'd make lakes of blood as they killed
everyone they found not themselves and did not stop killing people –
didn't matter who, unless it was one of them – until
everyone other than they themselves was cut into pieces to
ensure they all died?”

“That was what
was on that tapestry I bathed for,” said Sarah, “and I will write
it upon their walls with chalk and anything else I might get my hands
upon for marking.” A pause, then, “good. You have that thing
there for greasing bullets. What size is it set to?”

Georg now came
over, then said, “you must have given that man the cheap version,
as this one is a lot better.”

“No, not
'cheaper',” I said. “His was only intended for one size, while
this one will do any size and shape of bullet up to something a bit
smaller than what goes into a number four musket.” Pause, then, “I
deliberately made his as simple as possible to use so he'd not come
to grief when using it, while this one...”

“That one is
tricky,” said Sarah. “It works well, though, as I've used it.”

“When?” I
asked.

“When you last
had it set for pistol bullets,” said Sarah, “and I was out of
that type and was running low on commonplace balls, so I cast up
about twenty of what metal your moulds seem to like, then ran them
through it.”

“How does it
work?” asked Georg, as I began to insert the bullets for my
'elephant gun'. These needed a full stroke of the 'down' lever, just
like my old one I had once had had needed; then, once down, they
needed a full tug of the 'ratchet' lever that forced in the grease
and put it onto the bullet's many greasing grooves; then
lifting the main cast-bronze lever; and inserting the bullet into a
'bullet-board', with an added dab of grease on both ends of the hole
to make sure the bullet remained in place. I then noted someone had
'trimmed' those boards I had set aside for plugging, and more, there
were five boards, not the four of recollection.

“Are these new,
or something?” I asked.

“Yes, they are,”
said Sarah. “I had them made for the trip, as I learned something
about the weight one wishes to carry on my trips as part of my
schooling, and your boards weighed nearly half again as much those
there, if I went by holding them one after another so as to guess
their difference in weight.”

“Laminated
blackwood and this other lighter wood?” I asked. “It's really
hard, same as blackwood?”

“Those boards
give up nothing in strength,” said Sarah, “and they hold those
bullets better, as that type of wood makes for clean holes, not like
whatever you got from Hans, which is but little better than
something that fit to go in a stove.” Pause, then, “I wiped
those down twice with his last batch of wood-treatment thinned with a
bit of distillate, and I baked them in the oven beforehand overnight
then between between each such rubbing – and I put a file down
those holes, one that carpenters use for making holes fit for dowels
so they fit tightly.”

“Did you put
wood-treatment in those holes also?” asked Georg, as he felt the
outer surface of the wood 'blocks. These were easily two inches
shorter than what I had had, which also reduced their weight a bit.
“This looks good for a pattern finish.” Pause, then to me as I
ran more bullets, this rapidly, and put the emerging bullets in the
first board: “I've heard absolutely nothing from those
people I sent those patterns to months ago, and I've heard rumors
coming from that area that I don't much care for.”

“Rumors?” I
asked, as I plunged and then 'tweaked' another bullet. I'd do up the
forty or so bullets I saw Hans had run in short order, then
relubricate and 'plug' my remaining bullets and put their boards in
Anna's stove-pile. Every such bullet-board I had of the original
stock would go there, as Sarah calling that stuff fit for the stove
was nothing short of the dire truth.

“They are little
more than gossip, thus far,” said Georg. “I was going to put
some money to Tam so as to check up on them, but if I see him
tonight, I might manage to learn enough with less money than I
planned to toss, as he's gone down that way recently, and he might
know enough to tell me one way or another.”

“I can tell you
some matters already,” I said calmly. “First, the patterns those
carpenters have for 'sextants' are for wall-hangers, meaning they're
worthless for a two-ring sextant, much less those for one of
three rings. Then, when Pieter wrote of 'the best brass', he was not
talking about that smoky fumy stuff that's a health hazard at best
and a witch-magnet at worst.”

“Now you lost
me,” said Georg. “What is a witch-magnet?”

“Something that
draws witches like bags of money or those large black books,” said
Sarah, “and I have been around enough brass-founders in the five
kingdoms to know most of them act like witches, and the rest, save
for a very few, are witches indeed.”

“He did not mean
'common brass', but something out of an old tale,” I said.“Something that's about as hard as some of that new steel when
it's drawn to a dark straw, this odd golden color, very
resistant to corrosion – unlike commonplace brass – and needs a
lot of special equipment to first cast it and then machine the cast
pieces to size – and these things make any instrument made on the
continent, even those things supposedly made at the Heinrich works,
look to be fetishes for function and finish.” I then
muttered about the need to fabricate oil-tight 'dust enclosures' for
the moving parts and make three separate complete instruments, as
these things were so 'tricky' that assembling and then 'timing' them
was like doing brain surgery.

Or assembling the
engines to my car, especially in their latest incarnations, the ones
that were 'proof' to nearly ten thousand RPM.

“Closer than you
think” – meaning 'brain-surgery' – “and that work will
pay off when you're working on people in a theater,” said
the soft voice.

“Me?” I
gasped. “But I'm not a doctor...”

“You might be
surprised at what you can do, especially then,” said the soft
voice. “Recall how a lot of things became a lot better on
the way here, and how the amount you know about a lot of
subjects increased drastically?” A pause, this one longer,
then, “recall just what you were planning on doing once you
graduated, and how you found out no medical establishment wished to
hire someone with non-existent social skills – no matter how much
they cared and no matter how nice they would have been to actually
work with?”

“Prosthetics and
other medical equipment,” I said. “I would need to be able to
talk to d-doctors and know their language, and know a lot
about anatomy and the other things so as to design prosthetic devices
that worked...”

“And understand
a fair amount of medicine in general, including especially detailed
anatomy, and a lot more else beyond what you realized about the
medical profession,” said the soft voice. “That increased a
great deal, possibly as much or more than anything else that
changed.” Pause, then, “Now. Recall just how much you
were exposed to such equipment throughout your life, from early
childhood on, and then how many health problems you had from the time
you were full-grown, and then how you had to figure out on your
own so much of those health problems and then convince those
'people' that you were not crazy – and then, when the test
results came in, how often you learned you were right?”

I nodded dumbly,
this while the machine continued to run mechanically, a matter of
utter predictability. This machine had a huge advantage over earlier
means that way: once it was set for a particular bullet, it was a
matter of doing the same things over and over: snapping the lever to
its stops and counting the clicks of the ratcheting screw, and the
precision proper was built into the machine and its tooling. I was
almost done with my rifle bullets, and I did not have 'forty'.

I had fifty-three
present, and I would plug no less than three entire bullet-boards and
part of a fourth, and those bullets I had existing would fill the
fourth and possibly all the holes of the fifth one. I hoped and
prayed I would not need to shoot that rifle that much, but I
did resolve to transfer all my existing bullets to these thinner
boards Sarah had, as they did weigh a fair amount less.

“And a small
metal container of rifle powder in addition to a tapped-full flask,”
I thought.

“Best make it
three such containers, and larger ones than you thought to use,”
said the soft voice. “It is very useful for certain traps,
as you recall from your time in the fifth kingdom house proper.”

I finished up the
bullets for my rifle, then as I went upstairs to fetch the dies for
pistol bullets and any of the other kind of bullets that Hans might
well have hidden somewhere, I could hear talk regarding my
'lubricator-sizer' machine, and when I came down, I found I needed to
explain to Georg just what was needed to make dies for it – and
also, what sizes of dies I currently had.

“This machine
does bullets for rotating pistols,” I said, as I began to remove
the dies for 'lead corncobs', “and then cheese-bullets for number
one muskets, and then those you saw me running that to to what I
shoot, and then, potentially any bullet I get a sample of that's
about four to five lines smaller than what goes to a number four
musket, as when the dies are that thin, they tend to warp badly when
quenched – badly enough that I cannot clean them up with what I
have here for internal and external honing equipment.”

“Then if you go
through what I use on elk,” said Paul, “it will wish a new
barrel.”

“Good that I get
more of those with each trip coming up from the fourth kingdom,”
said Georg. “These are not rolled and welded barrels, but bored,
reamed, turned on their outsides, and of between thirty and
thirty-two lines, so if Tam tells me right, they will work well.”

“They will,” I
said. “I'll most likely gage a batch, then come up with reamers so
as to ream them to a uniform size that both cleans up and genuinely
straightens them inside, and then I can make dies for lubricating and
sizing such bullets to size.” Pause, then, “Paul, I hope you can
handle such an 'elk-musket', as it will toss you like mine
did, if not worse yet.”

“Yes, I know,”
said Paul. “Yours does that like a roer, so will that one do the
same.”

“It probably
will,” said Georg. “Now his tossed you?”

“Yes, some eight
feet, but I landed in hay, and so did that thing, though its hay was
twice as thick as mine,” he said. “That elk went nowhere except
down, and I cut its throat right away, so there is elk-pie in
Laidaan, or there should be by now.”

“And for the
next few days, people will be glutting themselves on such pies,”
said Willem. “I just hope I can get my slice of such a pie
before it is all gone.”

“That was a big
elk, Willem,” I said. “That publican is salting a lot of
meat right now – both cask-salting and brine-salting, as it does
not take twenty pounds of meat to make up a pie for three, and his
cold-rooms are quickly filling with those casks, so that thing's meat
will be at least somewhat fresh for the next week or more, given how
much salt he puts to that meat.'”

“No, closer to
two pounds of meat for a common-sized pie, assuming this is the
Public House in Laidaan,” said Esther – who herself was hoping to
sample such a pie. One of the usual size sounded about 'passable'
for her family, with part of one of those pies left for next-day's
lunch, given their cold-room and the nature of that place's pie-tins,
these being about an inch wider than those in Roos. “The one here
does a bit better most of the time, but a lot of places stint their
meat, and you do not wish that if you've been working hard all day in
the fields.”

Pause, then, “you
need to explain that thing better to him as to why you have so much
trouble with bullets larger than a certain size, as there will be
lots of people wanting their weapons freshened, and you're
going to be cutting lots of grooves in barrels.”

“I will?” I
asked, as I began wiping off the insert for my rifle's bullets and
then showed its shiny inside and outside to Georg. “This outer
part needs to fit that inner portion of the press exactly, pressing
the bullet into it and they makes bullets round, smooth, and the
exact same diameter for each one so treated, and if the die warps
more than a certain amount, I cannot make them right no matter what I
do – and that means a certain thickness of metal after lapping to
size and roundness, and I need to get them fairly close right now, so
that means nothing that's much bigger than a bullet for a number one
musket, if I want to avoid undue trouble.”

“So I was told
in three towns already,” said Georg about my needing to go through
muskets 'by the numbers', “and that in the last week. It seems
between you and a few others making shots at twice the range and more
of commonplace muskets and dropping witches right away doing so,
there are a lot of people wanting to do that, and I recall just how
much trouble it was to make those barrels, so I've been getting
best-grade twisted barrels from the fourth kingdom for some
weeks now, and several more each week.”

“Twisted?”
asked Willem. He was lining up the pistol bullets for me, with the
goal of handing me them as I ran them through the sizer once I'd
gotten the thing fully set up. It usually took some ten to fifteen
minutes if I'd been running the more-usual type, those being what my
rifle took, hence I commonly waited until there were at least sixty
or more bullets other than my usual size.

“Those are the
best kind,” said Georg, “and they're usually a good bit stronger
than the more-usual type for a given thickness. Only one kind is
better, and they who make those don't sell them as barrels, but only
as made-to-order weapons that take many months and multiple
inducements to make, and given what you had to do to make that one
man's weapon, I suspect why they would want those inducements.”

“The Heinrich
works, and that because they teem their own steel and then bore their
gun-barrels from the solid,” said Sarah. “Go on. What you're
saying is accurate enough, if you got your barrels from some place
that does a lot of guns.” Pause, then, “I hope you got their
stout barrels, as that's what is wanted for a weapon suitable for
drilling elk.”

“This place has
two stories and makes enough steam to pass for a big
wash-house and a printing-mill that does a lot of books,”
said Georg, “and while they can and do make to order, they make
enough muskets to have over a hundred workers, and that in a long
shift at the least – and yes, I have an ongoing order for 'your
very stoutest barrels, fit for firing heavy bullets and stout charges
of powder'.”

“Two overlapping
shifts, Georg,” said Sarah. “I think I know where that place is,
and I've been in it several times to get information about their
machines and what they do with them to make as many guns as they do.”
Pause, then, “if you got your barrels from there, then few save
the Heinrich works does much better, and that place scraps a fair
number of barrels, as they proof those things with hot powder
and a dozen balls rammed hard.”

“Tam
told me that was what
they did, and he said getting better was very hard
if you didn't know people in the marshes,” said Georg. “So, I
have an order there for at least five barrels a week, and I've gotten
eighteen thus far hidden under my bed right now, same as where I
usually keep the box with the swords before delivering them.”

“Under your
bed?” I asked. I wasn't about to tell Georg that he'd had thieves
get inside – and more, these people had found and noted everything
in his house in the process of finding those things they'd each
received a thousand guilders in gold each to retrieve – and
for a witch of modest desires living in the hinterlands, a gold
monster coin wasn't worth twenty guilders.

Those things were
so infernally rare in the northeastern quarter of the first kingdom
that they bought closer to a hundred guilders in silver's goods if
one compared them to the exchange rate in the central part of the
first kingdom – and for the first kingdom, even if it was indeed
the cheapest place to live of all places in the five kingdoms, there
was 'cheap', and there was cheap – and the northeast corner
of the first kingdom had not only ample game – mostly marmots, with
deer rare and elk almost nonexistent – but also, few towns, much
wide-open country, and areas where one could readily subsistence-farm
if one located one's rude stone-and-mud-walled hovel near a spring
and a decent-sized woodlot.

In those
circumstances, a thousand guilders in gold was good for much of a
lifetime, presuming one did nothing further to actually earn
a copper – decades of relative leisure, one given to perhaps
four hours a day of farming most of the year and the rest of the
'year' exposed to the pleasures of the chase, with all save a brief
period of snow in the winter and a somewhat longer period of rain
following that few weeks dusting of snow spent in a fairly hospitable
climate – and during that shut-in time of perhaps a month or two,
one either made witch-medals for sale points south, or polished
commonplace coins into witch-coins, or perhaps traveled south via the
secret way using one of the numbers of abandoned well-hid handcars so
as to invest one's money in sundry witch-run schemes, all of these
things done with the goal of increasing that initial amount
exponentially over the course of a few years. Georg's speech
then brought me back to the current reality.

“Yes, as I sleep
with my club right by my bedside on a stout leather loop about my
wrist, and I tie a pair of strings from a staple at each end, one
well-screwed to that box, and each string to one of my largest toes
when I've got that box having something in it,” he said. “I've
killed more than one thief since I put that box there earlier this
year.”

My estimation of
Georg went up at least two orders of magnitude, as given what he had
for a burglar alarm – namely, none – he'd done more than
anyone realistically could do, given his level of knowledge.
More, he'd caught thieves – which meant those that 'burgled' his
place either had inside information – difficult at best to get,
given how close-mouthed Georg could be – or, these people
were truly expert thieves, the kind witchdom produced on a
rare basis.

“You didn't tell
anyone about that setup, did you?” I asked, as I passed the first
bullet of 'revolver' size. The settings for these were a bit
trickier than for my rifle. “Needs less grease on the lever.”

“Yes, I know,”
said Hans. “You want the grooves on those bullets filled good,
and then a little tin of that black grease for putting across the
tops of the cylinder there, as Tam told me what can happen if you
don't.”

Georg then spoke:
“not a word to a soul, save to God alone – and the way things are
happening, I'm about due for another face-down blood-oath in a
church, same as I gave after that last pig nearly put me in my
grave!”

“And it keeps
your fouling soft, also.” I said, meaning the grease put across the
top of the cylinder holes in a revolver.

“It keeps it
down a lot, too,” said Hans, “and then most of the gun
cleans a lot easier, and finally, if you must go hard all day
and have little time for cleaning, then it keeps the rust from
starting, as you can wipe it down with a rag while you are riding.”

“At least until
you can get it to where you can clean it good,” I said.

“I had more than
one day recently where I could not clean it at all until I got
somewhere safe,” said Hans, “which was down in the basement here
in the evening, and there was no rust anywhere in or on that gun, so
I think that grease helps a lot. Then, there are those things that
most call muskets that now I know they are not those things, and
those stay good almost as good as a rotating pistol, at least for the
barrel.” Pause, then, “the rest needs cleaning as soon as you
can if you use flint and steel, or at least wiping down with a rag
with heavy distillate in it if you cannot clean it good right then.
Those like thimbles are a lot better that way, and people are
learning about them quick.”

Georg watched me
closely as I got the machine set right over the course of perhaps
five bullets, and as I turned the ratchet lever, he said, “only two
clicks I've heard so far each for this size of bullet? What does
that lever do?”

“Pumps the
lubricant into the grease-grooves of the bullets,” I said. “You
need two or three clicks for most pistol bullets, while three is what
you use for most cheese-bullets I'vedone, while those for my
rifle need close to a full stroke, or five clicks.” Pause, then,
“that setting would have given that one man absolute fits, as the
amount of grease in those grooves is a bit critical if you need to
consistently hit what you're aiming at – and he was as mechanically
illiterate as a turnip-farmer on the east side of the Main.”

“That metal
thing for his bullets has lots of those grooves for grease,” said
Hans, “and if you put in one fit for a rotating pistol and work
that thing right, you still want a little tin of grease with you,
while those boards he does hold enough of that stuff in them so as to
save the trouble carrying extra grease.” Pause, then, “now as
for that grease keeping pistols good, I know it is good for more than
one day, unless Lukas himself is a liar, as he told me about a time
recently where he was riding a lot and he had no chance to clean his
guns good until he got to where he was headed at the third kingdom
house proper, as he carrying this important letter to the king of the
third kingdom.” Here, Hans had to pause to drink beer. He'd said
a large mouthful for him. “Then, he was riding each day
there and back until his horse was about to give out and him
about to fall off of it, especially in some places, and a lot of that
riding done after dark by the light of the stars and the moon, with a
compass in his hand and all the two of them had being in their packs
and padded with rags for quiet, and the same for their horses'
hooves.”

“Drier in most
of those places south of the border with the second kingdom, so less
chance of rust compared to most of the year up here,” I said.
“N-no chance to clean?”

“They were using
powder from that one man whose powder you use, which means it is less
inclined toward starting rust, but it is worse for eating barrels and
other metal pieces once it gets that stuff started,” said Hans, who
then again paused to drink. He was no longer dealing with lead, so
could afford to slake his considerable thirst when and where he had
the chance. More, he'd put in a lot of work – for him.

He would learn
work a lot harder and longer in the days to come, and
that shortly.

“Yes, as he was
carrying a five-page letter writ by Hendrik his-own-self, and I saw
the red seal on that thing when he gave it to him,” said Hans
gravely. “That means it is for the eyes of the one addressed only,
and if it is red wax, that means a king is to get it, and him only
– and with all the witches they have down there in the third
kingdom, one cannot be too careful.”

Hearing
Hans speak that way
was something of a marvel, so much so that only when I came to myself
did I realize Willem had taken over for me running bullets through
the lubricator. He was a marvel, as between Georg speaking to him
and handing him the bullets rapidly, he was turning the things out at
the rate of several a minute. More, every bullet had just the right
smear of grease near its front 'ogive' that indicated its grease
grooves were indeed full, while he was not 'spraying grease' out the
top.

“Probably need
to top that thing with grease soon,” I muttered, as I began putting
the bullets in those brass tins Hans had found. That made me glad
this grease wasn't the tormenting kind, even if it was tacky enough
to make for wiping one's fingers after filling a tin full and
smearing a bit more on top before putting in a brass 'toothpick' that
served as a bullet extractor and nipple prick. One wished those save
for our thimbles, but having a short stiff 'pin' was still a
good idea. I usually carried two or three of them in my 'patch-tin',
it being that oblong brass box that held my cleaning supplies for my
original rifle.

“Best keep doing
that, as Anna found another bag of those brass things,” said
Sarah regarding what I was doing. “I think these I just found want
boiling, as this one at the top of this bag has this old and
really strange label on it, and it says...” Pause, then,
“it begins with a 'C', and ends with an 'e', and it has some dried
out black dust inside it.”

“Best put that
stuff in Hans' trash bucket, so I can put it in the firebox of the
stove later,” said Anna. “Sarah, let me look at that label. It
might be something a witch would want.” Not two seconds later,
Anna went flying some few feet amid a sudden thump followed a crash
of a table giving way as she landed atop it.

“You need a new
table, Hans,” said Willem laconically. “Now, Sarah – did she
find another fetish?”

“I think so, as
now I have soot on me like I was working with chemicals, and
then I need another bath, as I am starting to itch again,”
said Sarah.

Sarah did not
look good when covered with soot, and while Anna wasn't wearing much
soot, she too had her share. She got up from the table's wreckage,
shook her head, then spat, “Hans, this table was fit for firewood
before I landed on it.” Pause, this to dust some soot off
with sooty hands, then, “I'm getting my bath soon as she comes back
down here, and if there's something in that one bin that looks
likely, I am trying it out.” She then looked, and asked,
“where did that one bin go?”

“Up there with
her, I think,” I said, looking up somehow while remaining on task.
That tincture and pill combination made doing that a lot
easier. “Yep, in the bathroom. She'll probably sort through it to
see if anything fits her, both for top and bottom, as that stuff is
tailored for men and women – and it really makes women look,
uh, nice...” I thought the only matter of real improvement
was 'a smallish bottle of perfume in the inner pocket for times like
these'. I knew having 'scent' would really help the ladies,
and not merely in the area of making them smell nice. Smells,
especially certain ones, helped greatly in other
ways, and Annistæ would most likely know of them – as those
people used such things routinely.

“It was good it
had nothing of real importance on it,” said Esther regarding what
had tossed Anna. “Now was that a fetish?”

“Yes, and a bad
one,” said Anna. “It had these weird colors showing on it, like
out of a bad nightmare where you cannot tell if it's still night or
if the sun's come up looking weird like in a really old
tale, and these colors were moving a lot, and for an instant before
it went up on me, I could see most of the word. It went
'C-O-S-M-O...” Pause, then, “L... L-I-N-E' – and I am not
trying to say that one, as it's either a bad curse or it will
knot my tongue, or most likely both of those things.”

“I saw that one
early yesterday,” I said, “and it dates from before the war –
and just what it was... No!” I gasped.

“What?” asked
Anna.

“I
know what that stuff
once was,” I muttered, this as I got the cheese-bullets in line and
got ready their dies
and punches. Hans had
been casting those now and then; I could tell, as well as he'd been
shooting them some, also – but he knew they worked better when run
through this machine,
as Lukas had most likely told him.

The remaining revolver bullets were going fast now that
Willem was back on the machine, and I could tell he wanted one badly
– as well as a 'Webley', one that took reloadable
cartridges. Such ammunition would still need such equipment in its
preparation, as while 'Webley' pistols did not use jacketed bullets,
they kicked nearly as badly as 'full-loaded dragoons' and hit harder
than those pistols did at close range. I thought a distraction
of sorts might be wise.

“It means
several possible things, depending on just where you encounter that
expression and who it refers to,” I said. “If you mean
'real witches, those of before the war', then you're at least partly
right, as some of them did wear black face-grease then, and they
called that stuff what Anna just spelled out.” I paused, then
said, “why would they call it that? An intercept? That
stuff was a weapons-preservative grease where I came from, and a
nastier and stickier messy material was a hard thing to find
anywhere.” Pause, then, this mumbled, “only
torment-grease is worse than that stuff was, and it, not by much,
specially when it was the slimy variety.”

While there was no
answer, there were yet many bullets to grease-up for revolvers
– I had not realized there were that many remaining until now –
and I found that first I, and then Paul, needed to 'spell' Willem at
the lubricating machine so as to keep the bullets flowing steadily:
from the ranked rows to the left of the machine; then into and out of
the machine; then from there, onto an old rectangular 'tin' plate of
some kind, its tin beginning to wear to show tarnished brass; and
from thence, into the various brass 'shoe-polish tins', each one to
receive one of those small bent pieces of brass wire, one end
flattened to lift out a recalcitrant bullet, and the other folded to
hold a short piece of music wire, this to 'drill out' a fouled nipple
in an emergency.

Finally, prior to
closing said tin, a modest dollop of the grease was added, and the
lid put on and the whole hefty ensemble set to the side. It was an
easily-pocketed way of holding thirty-three bullets, which was
sufficient for six reloads per revolver – and three bullets
remaining as 'spares'.

Dropped bullets
did happen in the heat of 'combat', hence the added grease and
the small bit of old diaper on top of the whole assembly prior to
closing in case some field-wiping was in order.

While Willem was
amply careful when he was greasing the bullets with the
machine – being a cannon-master more or less demanded a
methodical manner of thinking if one wished to remain alive upon the
field when swine or northern thugs were handy – Paul, on the other
hand...

He bore careful
watching, as well as either myself or Willem watching him; and, at
times, one, the other, or sometimes the two of us and Sarah
spewing sundry words at him while reminding him of the methodical
nature of bullet preparation and the consequences of failure to do
the job right.

“You do not wish
to be chained up upon a burn-pile, or have witches talking about
killing you in a witch-hole, do you?” asked Sarah pointedly. Her
voice then took on an absolutely chilling tone. “If you ever wear
chains and clothing soaked with distillate, or lay tied like a beeve
ready for roasting with witches speaking of where they shall cut your
throat for a sacrifice, then you will give your all! Mark my
words, and upon my face-down oath in church, you will!”

“The witches
planned to do that to you?” I gasped.

“Yes, but they
did not search me terribly well, and I had an instrument-maker's
knife from the fourth kingdom, a good one, one I still have, and I
cut my bonds and escaped while they were getting drunk.” Pause,
then, “here are five more of those brass tins.”

These last were
'bright', and reeked of vinegar; and behind us, I could hear someone
– Anna, most likely – running up the stairs, this with a
clattering and sizable bag. She was most definitely hot for a
bath.

I could tell that
much merely by 'feel' now.

“I have more of
these brass tins drying in the oven,” said Sarah, “but after I
saw Anna get tossed and I wore soot from that smelly fetish, I did
not wish to take any more chances than I have to with these
things.”

“Are you wearing
that, uh, 'nice' clothing?” I asked, as I wiped my hands first with
a clean rag then one dampened with aquavit. Sarah had a knot in one
of her shoulders, and I was fretting. I began rubbing her upper
back.

“Yes, I am
wearing that clothing now,” she said, moving one of my hands to the
very spot, “and I wish to wear little else.”

“First,
there is its packing,” said Sarah. I could tell she was
most-enthused with this stuff. “It packs into such a small area
that you would think it to be a small handkerchief of thin linen, but
then it fluffs out when you unfold it, but then, oh! Its feel! Only
wearing a thick knit gown of tickle-cloth feels better!”

“Yes?” I asked. “It helps with
hard work, like, uh, fighting messes of nasty blue-suited
functionaries, correct?” I was still rubbing Sarah's back, and now
and then, I stroked my hand down her back briefly. I was hoping to
get such back-rubs myself in the future, actually – and hence 'do
unto others as you would wish them to do unto you' was my thinking.

“This helps greatly then, or anytime
one must work long and hard in a hot room like this one,” said
Sarah.” A brief pause, then, “I would ride money on everyone who
is going on that trip will wish this stuff for wearing, as there must
be at least thirty pairs of both tops and bottoms in that tub, and
each one I saw had a small place near the front of one's neck-place
for one's name.”

“Did some have y-your name?” I
asked.

“Yes, five sets of them, tops and
bottoms,” said Sarah. “I bagged them up, tops and bottoms
separate, and I could not have cut and sewed these better had I all
the time and the best needles in the world.”

As if to supply a truly 'fit'
rejoinder, a faint yell came from overhead.

“Anna must have found some to fit
her,” said Sarah. “I put more shot in that tub, even if I
used that field soap first and the medical soap afterward.” Pause,
then, “I found this other thing in there, though, and I'm not sure
what it is, even if it's tied with a red ribbon and wrapped in
bleached linen cloth – only this is not common linen, but closer to
woven tickle-fiber for its feeling.”

“More medicine-soap?” I asked.

“No, it's not that, as it is in this
strange box that feels like it's made of metal, but I can tell it is
not metal,” said Sarah. “The only thing I've felt before that
feels like this is that small 'clock' you received.”

“That is not
an ordinary clock, Sarah,” said Esther. “That thing is closer to
a navigating timer for accuracy, and it's far better than any such
thing for size and sturdiness – oh, and it floats, and it's
waterproof.”

“How can it
float if it is made of brass?” asked Sarah. “Brass is heavy
enough to sink like a rock.”

“Perhaps it was
fooling us as to what it was made of, dear,” I said. “I've never
seen any metal do what that thing did, and that no matter if
that metal was real stuff or in a, uh, visual story of some kind.”

“That's because
you were looking at metals you were familiar with,” said the soft
voice. “That is not one of them – and no, it's not
entirely metal, but a metal-organic compound that is 'science
fiction' where you come from.” Pause, then, “think something
closer to 'living metal'.”

“Ooh,” I
gasped. I had heard of that before, and the creature made of it was
worse than a herd of Iron Pigs to deal with.

“No, not that
kind of living metal,” said the soft voice. “There is a
three-dimensional titanium-aluminum alloy matrix which gives
the casing the bulk of its strength; then between the spaces in that
latticework of 'girders', there are a large number of various
formulations of electrically-excited organic compounds in
glass-walled cells, much like tiny liquid-crystal displays; and then,
finally, a network of fine insulated wires run over certain surfaces
so as to pick up your nervous system impulses.” Pause, then, “that
one has a pretty limited capacity that way, unlike those
'similar' devices that you'll encounter in other locations, in one or
more theaters – or later, some months from now – in integrated
form.”

“Integrated form?” I asked.

“Yes, integrated,” said the
soft voice. “Remember waking up in that strange-feeling 'clothing'
and hearing that woman's voice inside
your head, as if she were speaking audibly into your mind and
reminding you about how she would make sure you were always
able to do your very best and not feel horrible and deathly
ill while doing so?” Pause, then, “that takes integrated
equipment, and you were wearing
a lot of it – and
even more of that equipment was implanted.”

I
felt to the area just above my right ear, and there, the flat plane
of the screw became so obvious I knew that it was an
all-too-plausible matter.

I had
an implant there, this of titanium with a small magnet – and that
had been done nearly fifteen years ago if I measured time
conventionally – and done in a place whose medical technology
wasn't nearly as advanced as where I would be going.

“It was being
done in some numbers prior to that war long ago for things of a
similar nature to what was done to you, and between what
information they will shortly receive and what they will find over
there before you leave and what they are able to hunt down quickly
once you 'unlock matters', those multitudes of medical people and
their numerous friends over there will waste not a second's time
working toward achieving a level of such integration that those prior
to the war could only dream of.”

“Vrijlaand..?”
I asked, as I took over from Paul and he began handing me revolver
bullets. I soon got into the 'groove', that where Willem was
removing the finished bullets and Paul actually putting them in
the sizing die. In with the bullet, down with the lever,
click-click, up with the lever, remove the bullet. In; down;
click-click; up; remove. Pause. In; down; click-click; up; remove.
Repeat procedure.

Just like that one
little brass cube's 'machine-line' ways and its stranger-yet
behavior.

“Vrijlaand –
they originally came up with that equipment – did somewhat
better prior to the war, but the war slowed their relative rates of
progress compared to where you are going,” said the soft voice,
“and once the Curse hit, that put a permanent stop to both
production of such equipment and all further testing in Vrijlaand's
territory.”

Pause, then,
“those overseas, even if their progress was but a modest fraction
of Vrijlaand's and done under intense secrecy, continued to 'throw
men and money at the project in an utterly prodigal manner' – hence
they're currently far beyond what Vrijlaand managed at its very
height, even if they wasted vast amounts of manpower, time, money,
and effort.”

This seemed truly
an example of 'quantity has a quality of its own', and a second
later, I knew I had understated the case.

“That is all too
true, especially regarding their too-tight secrecy and the vast reams
of committed-to-file-systems bureaucratic documentation that your
opening the doorways will enable everyone in the medical
establishments to read and record within minutes of them learning,”
said the soft voice – who then dumped 'the mother of all
bombshells'.

Pause, then, “what
they will get in the next weeks, though – that's going from
'Harvest-Day skyrockets to faster-than-light starships' in comparison
to the previous eight hundred years of slow, steady, and 'stupid'
labor, and that in every area needed to make such help happen
quickly.”

I then noted Anna
had come back down, and while she did smell of food more than a
little, she also smelled 'good' as well, and she turned around twice,
her arms outstretched, much as if she were either dancing or
portraying herself as a fashion model. I then saw her skin, and it
faintly seemed to glow with health.

That clothing
really helped her figure, as it seemed to make her look much more
'womanly', just as it had with Sarah. I wondered if there were some
underclothing with Annistæ's name embroidered on it.

“Look at your
own arms,” said the soft voice. “Later, when you finish
running those bullets. You're doing more than Paul and Willem
combined twice over, given the way they're helping you, as now they
know who doing what works best for getting this business done.”
The unspoken portion: “time is a-wasting, and get your rump to
moving!”

“Yes, I know,”
said Anna mysteriously, who came closer to what I was now working
with redoubled energy, so much so that Anna looked about ready to
fetch Paul a kick in the pants for being so laggardly. She then
turned, and said, “Hans, where are you hiding yourself now?”

“Over here, in
the small-corner of the place with all the shelves, looking through
these medicines and tossing the ones that smell bad,” said Hans.
“You smell that stuff a lot better than me now, so you might want
to help me so I do not get fooled by something put up by a witch or
someone who might want to be one of those things.”

“I hope I do not
get tossed again,” muttered Anna, as she moved somewhere to my rear
and then left. She then then noticed Sarah was helping Hans, and
more, she had found another 'trash bucket' – a bucket that was
being filled quickly with medicines fit for either burning or the
manure-pile. “Oh! She can see those things too!”

“Yes, I know,”
said Hans in chastened voice, “and I have a lot of trouble
that way, so I hope when I get my markings I will not have trouble
like I have now.”

“You will get
your markings, Hans,” said Sarah ominously, “and then youwill give a blood-oath face-down in the church here,
and the door will open for you no matter the time, day or night that
you should crawl over its doorstep and leave a trail of blood as you
advance upon its altar.”

“Crawl?” I
asked – and then, by means too strange to describe, I saw a
pair of legs absolutely riddled with wounds, wounds from both
balls and shot, and cut in places with what might have been
stolen-from-Norden war-axes. More than one toe was missing from each
destroyed foot, bullets had ripped up his lower legs – not
commonplace bullets, but those huge fifty-line things from the fifth
kingdom – and more than one such massive slug had hit him in the
gut, and another had clipped the side of his head, there to leave his
left eye filled with blood and a slow rivulet of the stuff steadily
coursing down the side of his shot-ripped neck.

Without God to
save him, Hans was 'dead right there'; and more, they'd killed
his horses on the spot so he'd die slow under a blazing sun amid the
ruins of a bullet-riddled buggy, the witches riding off in their
coaches and laughing as he died, this as “a fool too stupid for us
to wish even as a witch-puppet, may Brimstone gnaw your flesh, you
crawling scum-licking dung-worm!”

Yet somehow, Hans
did not die; he crawled into a woodlot after hiding for a moment
under the ruins of the buggy he had borrowed, found some water,
bathed his wounds, and rested in the shade after dumping some of that
strange powder into his wounds, followed by swallowing some truly
nasty antibiotics. He'd winced at the taste of both powder
and pills, and raved silently as they made the world into a realm of
nightmare worse than hell; and while he could not walk, he could
crawl – and crawl he did, hand over hand in the darkness of night
as the fires to the north and a bit to the east slowly sent their
vast columns of black smoke into the heavens.

More, he crawled
with astonishing alacrity, as with his wounds 'partly' repaired, and
his bag more or less intact – the witches wanted him dead;
they spat their green 'yuck' upon his plain-looking gear and his
buttoned leather 'rifle case', at least until he'd put a round into
the last coach's dynamite from his rifle – as he lay under the
cover of that smoldering mess of a buggy – at a distance of
several hundred yards, and blew up the whole stinky column in a
series of massive explosions.

The witches didn't
laugh then, even as he gritted his teeth and buttoned his rifle case
once more. He'd needed but one round to send every single
witch and mule of that entire lot 'straight to the plate of
Brimstone', and now utterly silent, he resumed his slow and painful
crawl 'home' with his back toward the setting sun.

He did not abandon
his gear. He was being told to not abandon anything of the
like to the enemy, no matter how much it slowed or pained him; more,
he was being given explicit guidance so as to avoid capture by more
witches; and finally, he was receiving – finally; he was now
listening carefully, this for the first time ever – thoselessons regarding the matters that had taken me decades in a hard
school to learn:

Trust no one.
It does not matter if you have known them for years: again, trust
no one and no thing save the written word of God and the one who
caused it to be written.

Hide everything
you possibly can from everyone, as you do not know who
will turn against you and try to stab you in the back when they think
they have the chance to do you ill. Profit might and might not
matter, as with evil, logic carries nothing save when it abets or
coincides with the momentary inclinations of one's vast
multitudes of enemies – and forget ever relaxing your guard until
the day you go to your reward.

Never assume
anything – save, perhaps, 'today will be the very worst day of your
entire life'.

Plan for the very
worst scenario you might think of, and assume things worse yet would
indeed come to pass, things worse even than your very worst
nightmares; and these in ways you could never dream of in a million
years.

Never, ever give
up, no matter who throws curses at you or how hard they try to stop
you. Whether you live or die does not matter as long as the one you
will give an accounting to is pleased with the end result.

And finally, there
is but one person you can count on to some degree, and only one
person you must trust with all you have. The answer to the
last, of course, was God; while the former was – possibly –
yourself.

And then, I had
seen what had suddenly showed, this as a short stack of
plastic-laminated cards. Georg came over, began reading, then
suddenly slapped his head. He'd been busy with something that needed
doing, what being a good question, at least until I smelled the reek
of a sizable pot of just-decanted buggy-grease being stirred well
with a stirring rod.

“This needs
preaching,” he said, taking one of the cards that had just showed.
“Good that I can read decently, least for around here, as someone
left a receipt for that buggy-grease, and I followed it as close as I
could.”

“You what?” I
asked.

“I weighed
everything, just like the directions said,” said Georg, “and it
said, not less than every third line printed in bright red ink, “be
careful and watch everything” – so I did
that, and now, it seems to be coming good.” Georg then gestured,
and before my eyes lay a huge just-emptied flask, one larger
than anything Hans had save for three others like it, the thing set
up identically to my much-smaller batch, and the whole of the
two batches under that one heating lamp, this turned down to a simmer
under the pot. Georg was obviously mingling the two, with the goal
of getting the best possible result.

A smaller flask,
this easily a liter, was filled with a cleanly-separated species of
what looked like distillate. Esther indicated it was similar to a
less-smelly version of light distillate, and more, that Georg was an
especially careful man, one more so than anyone save perhaps Willem
when he was doing the more-important things at the manse.

My estimation of
Georg went up another order of magnitude. Any witch who could
burgle his house successfully was an acute danger to the
entire kingdom at the least, and I hoped under my breath I
would get onto his smelly carcass before we left for overseas.

“He's already
where he belongs,” said the soft voice. “He was blown to atoms
when those witch-holes went up earlier today.”

“Good,” I
thought. “That stinker won't pull that trick again.”
Again, however, I heard the distinct 'wait' to speak of Georg's
house being burgled by possibly the only witch in the entirety
of the five kingdoms that could have pulled it off given his
precautions.

“No, not quite,”
said the soft voice. “There was a team of five witches, but as far
as the individual that actually went inside to where Georg sleeps,
you're nothing short of absolutely right, as none of those
four people were 'Cardosso-level' for intelligence and 'Koenraad the
first' level for curse-power – and that witch was both of
those things, and a most-experienced house-thief as well.”

“That was a bad
witch, then,” said Esther emphatically from where she was 'going
through Hans' shelves like a pig through a weed-strewn row of corn'.
“Hans, look at the good side of this. You'll have plenty of room
here for real medicine when it starts coming here, even if you
want these shelves here done up right and their bad wood replaced.”

“Sawn and
laminated blackwood and sugar-tree wood, and three coats of
reactor-cooked wood-treatment, and the whole done in the boatwright's
shop,” I said. “Hans, almost every stick of furniture in here
either needs to be done over completely or worked over at some
serious length, as the kind of damp down here breeds dry-rot
nearly as fast as Paul's cheese-rooms.”

“You can speak that again,” said
Sarah. “They have nothing down there of wood, as it goes to dust
and powder almost as fast as you can bring it down there, and Hans
does this stuff up almost every chance he gets with drying oil and
left-over wood-treatment.”

“He did in the past, anyway,” I
said. “Since I came, it got a bit too busy for him to
manage that three-times-a-year refinishing, and now that dry-rot is
eating the place alive.” Pause, then, “speaking of
dry-rot, what will that new table be made of for the kitchen?”

“How could you know?” asked Anna.
“I told them we would be busy, we would be putting wood-finish to
it ourselves, it needed to endure well, and it needed to sit
four for the most part and six at need, and four easily, not cramped
as we usually sit, and then I spoke about how you usually drew your
drawings while seated at it, so they knew just what kind of table was
wished – and more, what kind of table you
needed.”

“What?” I asked.

“It might not be a table fit for
Hendrik's chambers for its looks, but it is its twin for its
construction and function,” said Anna, “and then...” A sniff,
then, “I hope you finish up those bullets quickly, as we shall wish
to serve up dinner soon, and then Georg must head himself down to the
Public House so as to wait out his buggy.”

“Yes, I know, which is why Esther
told me about needing plenty of 'buggy oil',” said Georg. “I had
no idea she was nearly as good a chemist as Hans, and I was glad of
her help.”

“No, Georg,” said Sarah. “She
is not as good a chemist as
Hans.” Pause, then, “give her a few days with Annistæ, and
she will be a much better one, as she helps Paul with his bomber's
work and Willem with much of what he does, and the first rule of
chemistry is to be watchful, and the second rule is to never assume
anything that you do not know for a certainty
– and there is little enough of that,
as I have learned in the last few years.”

I then thought to
ask a question: “is Georg marked?”

“No, but he did
give another blood-oath in the town's church last night after
Anna sent him home, even if it was not a face-down one,” said the
soft voice, “and when you've got that many scars from
fighting witches and swine, you might not be marked, but you
are skirting the category by nearly as slim a margin as Sarah
is.” Pause, then, “he might not have as many marked
people in his genealogy as Willem or Sarah, but he does have
his share.”

With so much
happening, and my needing to go 'all over the shop', seemingly, I now
wondered as to what had occurred with the second pot of odorless
tallow. Georg then spoke of the material in question, and also, the
uncommonly large knife he'd found next to the pans he'd poured the
stuff into.

“She likes that
knife, and thinks you should make those for butchers,” said Georg,
“but August tells me they're harder to clean compared to that one
you made, and they need a lot more work to keep decent.”

“That's a ship's
rigging knife, Georg, not a knife for butchering,” said Sarah.
“Esther might well wish one like it, but I think she'd best take a
look at what Anna has in her kitchen before...”

“One can never
have too many knives if one cooks much,” said Esther. “Now, if
one took one like that, and did some changes to it, it would be a bit
better for cooking, but the blade itself holds a very good edge, and
only a few knives I have seen or heard of do better.”

“You'll get
those soon enough,” said Anna. “You mean like this type here?”

“Yes, only those
aren't that good for cooking, save if one is boning a quoll and
doesn't mind possibly cutting one's fingers more than the bird,”
said Esther. “If it had but one edge and... How hard are those to
clean?”

“Very easy,”
said Sarah, “though for a while, I doubt you wish a dark knife, at
least in the kitchen. They can lose themselves in some kitchens.”

“I doubt it
would lose itself in mine,” said Esther.

“She is crazy
for that place,” said Paul conspiratorially. “She must have a
place for everything, and she must put it back in that very same
place, and if she does not, then she can start screaming and throwing
things...”

“Careful, Paul,”
said Willem. “You've seen nothing yet, if what I hear is true
about him.”

“What?” I
asked.

“I would like to
ask you that,” said Georg, “as while I have not seen you
scream, nor seen you throw things, I could tell when you had
to walk away from those apprentices that you were not happy
with them not paying attention.” Pause, then, “I'd rather have
someone do that than scream, throw things, and then try to cause
trouble, and that every day of a twelve-day week!”

“I often feel
like screaming, throwing things, kicking walls, and a great deal more
on occasion,” I blurted. “There, Paul – I'm worse than Esther,
and not a little worse.”

“I'd say that
again,” said Esther. “Now what did that one woman that looked a
bit like Sarah say, the one that a lot of gunners speak of? Barbara,
I believe her name was? Didn't she say you had more self-control
than anyone she'd ever ran into?”

“Y-yes,” I
said with a shudder. “I was surprised to no little degree,
actually, as I'd never thought myself to have much of that at all.”

“Self-control
is what you do, not what you think,” said Esther. “If you
did not think such things, then you would have no need of that
capacity.”

The bullets –
those were finally reaching their end – were now coming faster than
everything, now that Georg was handy to help pack them away, and as
he did so, I noted his periodic wiping of his fingers on a rag. This
made for a distinctive shudder on my part, as what I had heard about
him being 'close to marked' was obviously nothing short of the truth.

More, the last few
days had added to matters, and I wondered for a moment just how
those witches had burgled his house.

“Oh, no,” I
thought. “Was that the reason they assaulted the house here?”

“But one of
several,” said the soft voice. “With Georg pinned down and the
bulk of the town resembling a noisier version of Harvest Day for
smoke and noise, that one witch saw his chance and he and his four
compatriots broke in through the rear of the place after carefully
scaling the back wall – as had that witch tried for Georg's room
while he was home, he would have been killed on the spot, and
the same for his helpers.”

“Uh, what he had
planned?” I asked.

“Recall about
how Georg is not as he seems?” said the soft voice. “He's on a
par with Willem that way, and both of them know each other better
than you surmised.” Pause, then, “anyone who is or once was a
cannon-master is usually not a joke in the intelligence
capacity, and the better ones are either marked, or have a lot of
marked people in their bloodline – and what Georg did with that
last pig was the act of a marked person, little did he realize
it then – and in his case, one of two things will play out before
the curse breaks entirely: either he will become a monster, or
he will become an arch-witch – and right now, the matter is one
where he still could go either way.”

I had the
impression that who I was hearing from knew the outcome, but I had my
hands well beyond full now and for the immediate future, and given
the state of my health, I had far too much to deal with as it was.
Better to leave the future to the one in charge of such matters, I
seemed to think, and as my eyes blinked shut and I seemed
transported, I abruptly awoke to find myself sitting on the couch, a
cold cup of beer in my hand, a bustling kitchen with at least three
people in it, two missing men, and Paul and Willem sitting beside me
on the couch pouring down the beer as fast as they could.

Sarah came, this
with a vial. “Time for your dose, and then part of a pill, and
then, a refill of your beer. I've already gotten mine.”

“What happened?”
I asked.

“I have no idea
how you could still work while asleep,” said Willem, “but I saw
you fall asleep, and then your arms first, then the rest of you,
began glowing this faint and hazy blue color, and then it was all I
and Georg and Paul and Sarah could do to keep those bullets coming at
you and remove them from that thing, and you were doing your job so
fast they were done in ten minutes by that little clock that thinks
itself an old tale”

“It is an
old tale, sir,” said Sarah, as I washed down my dose with beer,
“and one that is most needed. Now Hans should be back soon with an
empty bucket and two more jugs of beer, and two more coming later
with Georg when he gets his buggy. We will then need to look it
over, and then...” Pause, then, “then, he shall need to hie
himself, and so shall we, for there is much we have yet to do after
we have our meals.”

“Will not Georg
get any of that buzzard?” asked Paul.

“Yes, as I put
some in a large cup for him, one padded with rags with one of these
strange tinned brass spoons that's half the weight of a commonplace
one and a tenth the weight of one found in a Public House,” said
Esther. “Sarah showed them to me, and it seems they get wiped anew
with tin about every two months, so I'm not sure we want them.”

“Those are for
long-trips,” said Sarah, “and he – here, she indicated me –
makes them specially of two pieces assembled with jeweler's solder,
then tins them.”

“Wait until
Annistæ has her plating setup running,” I said. “Now I
wonder if I can get an engine made over there for plating?”

“For running her
entire setup, no,” said the soft voice. “It would not be nearly
what she needs or wants.” Pause, then, “for doing a pot or two,
then yes, easily; and she'd willingly run one, as she's seen things a
bit like them before – and yes, she could use it to charge
batteries for providing lighting of certain key areas while
she's getting that place into shape for real work.”

“A pot or two?”
I asked. “Here?”

“Medical
plating,” said the soft voice. “Basket plating of various
rivets, especially those you use a lot. Plating up those
forks, spoons, and the other things that will come to mind with a
species of plating that's not only a lot more wear-resistant than
wiped tin, but one that makes that travel cookware a lot more
sanitary and far easier to clean. Certain sextant parts, especially
some of the gears. That green coating for special tools and other
sextant parts that need to be especially wear-resistant – and, of
course, charging batteries of one kind or another.”

We would be
charging a lot of batteries, and I was about to ask for my
clipboard when Sarah looked at me, ledger in hand.

“Both of those
battery chargers we got from the Abbey,” I said. “The other
batteries can charge up by laying them out in the sun.”

“Yes, and I make
sure Hans does that daily, so I can practice using that equipment,”
said Anna. “Now there is this one thing I found, and I'm not sure
what it is.”

“What is it?”
asked Anna.

“It is about the
size of the largest book we have,” said Anna, “and it looks to be
made of a strange type of glass, only it has a small metal tag on it,
and two small posts, one red and the other black, and then this small
coil of twisted wire...”

“That's a
battery charger!” I spat. “Could you bring it here?”

Anna needed
perhaps three minutes, which left Esther alone in the kitchen. She
was humming to herself, seemingly, and the whole while, I had the
sense that Anna was having her kitchen gone through. Only when a
sudden pop broke the humming did she actually speak.

“Paul, could you
fetch a shovel? I just shot a rat, and I think it needs to go out
before it makes a mess on the floor.”

Paul responded
with alacrity, and when Anna came down the stairs with this article,
I was stunned: it was not the size of the 'Strong's Exhausting
Concordance'.

It was easily two
feet wide and nearly three long, and when Anna handed it to me, I
read the placard in an instant.

“Where did this
come from?”

“I found it
while we were looking around in that dark place,” said Sarah. “It
was over by those things called field telephones, but I had no idea
as to what it was and was going to leave it until Katje told me we
wanted it. Why, I have no idea. Do you?”

“Yes, as it will
keep any batteries we have here fully charged,” I said. “This
thing puts out a decent amount of current if there's any sun hitting
it at all, and so if it goes atop the bathroom roof where it's hidden
from the street and the lines go down through one of the vents, then
it can keep every battery we have in the house fully charged so Hans
and Anna and their helpers...” Pause, then, “when are those
people coming?”

“Tonight for
two, and the other three tomorrow morning about the time you're about
to leave,” said the soft voice. “More, one of them is a Medikalé
from the Rooster Totem, so she'll know how to 'deal with' any
'Cabroni' that show.”

“Medikalé?”
I asked.

“As
in she's got both the red and the black gunsight patches,
unlike Annistæ, who has but the black one – though hers has a
green ring around it, and she's sewing that patch on
her newly-fitted laboratory smock as we speak.”

“What
does that mean?” asked Sarah.

“Something
the Mule Totem's tsoldatos do not like to speak of,” said
the soft voice. “If you find one of the Rooster Totem's people with
one of those patches, they're just shy of 'experienced
tsoldato level' when it comes to fighting.” Pause, then, “given
just who they end up fighting, it isn't surprising.”

“Mining
town thugs, ones that have been swilling high-test long enough that
they're crazy enough to try anything, too dumb to have a shred of
caution, and so stinking inhabited that they need to be turned into
pot-strainers before they go down and stay down. That sound about
right?”

“Yes,”
said the soft voice. “A lot of mining-town thugs need
'hard-witch drill' followed by decapitation and then some Krokus in
the mouth to die entirely and not send their droves of
'whites' after those killing them.”

“Hard-witch
drill?” asked Paul. “What is that?”

“Two
in the chest, one in the head, stinky witches gonna be dead – oh,
and remove their heads with a sword and a taste of Krokus in the
mouth,” I said. Pause, then, “so that's why she spoke
that way – those stinkers really do stink, and not just
because of what they drink – they're more inhabited than Koenraad
the first was!”

“Exactly,” said the soft voice.
“Now, Hans is on his way back, and Georg is sampling his 'diced
buzzard' along with a smallish plate of greens – when he isn't
answering questions from the publican about who put the lead in that
bird.”

“He shot its head off with this gun
out of an old tale,” said Paul. “It sounds nearly as loud as one
of Willem's guns, and that man Georg told me it was a good way of
learning how to shoot a roer.”

“He's never fired one,” said
Sarah, “though I have, and I have fired those loads out of a
doubled-barreled gun like a commonplace fowling piece, and while they
are not roers, they will hurt you if they don't fit just right.”
Pause, then, “that one wanted some Komaet, it hurt so bad.”

“That is close enough to a roer to
suit me, then,” said Willem. “Esther, how is that bird?”

“Near enough to done that we wait
upon Hans,” said Esther, “and then, I hope you-all have
appetites, as we shall have the first of our night-meals, as then our
work shall begin in earnest, and then we shall all wish to turn in as
soon as we may. Tomorrow wants an early starting, and then we must
pay close attention, as not doing so will have us all dead.”